


When You Go There

by romanticalgirl



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take me in</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Go There

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 5-3-07

Ioan sits on the balcony, feet propped on the railing, eyes closed. It’s his first sign of peace in nearly two months, given that he’s been running around the world doing press and pressing flesh and filming and generally running himself ragged ‘round the edges. He’s tired and can’t help but breathe out a sigh and suck in the all too familiar air of London. It smells of sludge and whatever it is that passes for the Thames these days, because he’s relatively certain it’s not water anymore, and animals and dust and too many people. It smells nothing like home because home smells like grass and fire and the sea, or smog and traffic and makeup, but it’s a home of sorts and it’s welcoming right now, and that’s all that matters.

He knows he should go inside as he’s an invitation to whatever paparazzi isn’t chasing after Jessica and her boyfriend, Crunch or Crash or Johnny Danger or whatever his bloody name is, but there’s a weak hint of sunlight and a cool breeze and it’s better than the stale, stagnant air that seems to be everywhere else.

He leans over and picks up his beer, rolling the cold bottle against his forehead and neck. It’s a habit that he’s picked up in LA – drinking his beer cold, and he know he’s shaming his countrymen, but it’s better that way unless it’s Guinness. Matthew looks at him in pure horror, but he imagines that’ll change soon enough. Still, right now in the stifling not-quite heat, it feels good.

Since he’s giving in, he drinks a long swallow then sighs, reaching over for the pack on the table. He’s nearly given up the habit and hates himself a bit for not managing it yet, but it doesn’t stop him from tapping one out of the pack and lighting up, closing his eyes and enjoying the initial burst of flame, the crackle of paper and the sweet, rich smell of burning.

“You’re a bloody hedonist.”

He glances back over his shoulder, blushing profusely. “Thought you weren’t due ‘round until tonight.”

“Filming cut off early, so I caught an earlier train.” Matthew leans against the silver frame of the sliding glass door and watches him, smiling slightly as Ioan takes a hit of the fag and then holds it, finally blowing out an imperfect ring. “Rough day?”

“Rough few weeks.” He watches the ring float away, half an eye on Matthew. “How’s filming?”

“Not bad. Lots of Lohan jokes floating around.”

“To be expected.” Ioan grins at him and then takes another hit, offering the fag to Matthew. He shakes his head and Ioan shrugs. “There’s more beer inside.”

Matthew shakes his head again and walks the short distance across the balcony, settling into the seat on the other side of the small table. He props his feet on the balcony, seeming larger than Ioan’s bare one in his work boots. Ioan lets his eyes follow the line of Matthew’s legs to his hips then to his hands, resting on his thighs. Matthew’s got lovely hands, and Ioan’s watched them for hours, _felt_ them for hours, and never seems to tire of them. Matthew catches him looking, the corner of his mouth quirking up as Ioan blushes again. “I’ve only been gone six weeks.”

“Seems like it’s been a lifetime, as wild as it’s been.” He tilts his head and watches Matthew as he allows the quirk to turn into a full-fledged smile, his own gaze warm on Ioan. “It’s good to be home.”

“Is this home?” Matthew closes his eyes, the smile still in place. Ioan revels in it for a moment before the shift of ash catches his attention and he takes a last hit of the fag before snuffing it out against the cheap metal tin on the table. His beer drowns the smoky scent that presses on his tongue and he slumps down in his chair, groaning a little as his muscles stretch.

“Could be,” Ioan allows. It’s not anymore and they both know it. He remembers so clearly their last days in London – running about like teenagers, trying to get all those touristy things done before they were both gone and unable to travel about with any kind of freedom. Matthew’d dragged him to the top of the bloody Wallace Monument in Scotland, he’d made him pretend to be impressed by the crown jewels (though they’d both spent more time laughing like disrespectful arses making crude jokes about them) and offered Ioan up for the chopping block at the Tower of London. They’d laughed more in those few weeks than they had the entire time they’d lived together, Ioan thought.

“What?” Matthew’s eyes are on him again, curious and dark; the shifting clouds making the blue seem grey. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one.” Matthew waves his hand about then reaches over and snags Ioan’s beer. He drinks half of it down – bastard’s always had a better drinking constitution which Matthew attributes to being a better Welshman, and they’ve spent a fair amount of time wrestling each other over that one – and then hands it back to Ioan, long fingers lingering against Ioan’s.

“I’ve not a clue what you mean, Rhys.” It’s a lie, because it’s there in his voice. That’s the best thing about Matthew, when all is said and done, is that they don’t really need words between them. It’s always there, whatever it is, and Matthew knows it as well as he does. “Besides, I do not.”

Matthew laughs, and it’s an honest laugh, the one that makes him tuck his legs in at the knees to stay balanced, curled up and holding his stomach. Ioan memorizes that, because it’s beautiful and he wants to remember it always, especially for those days when Matthew’s bone-tired and weary, hiding behind the faintest of smiles because to do anything else would be admitting defeat. The laugh dies out slowly and Matthew shakes his head, levering himself to his feet. Ioan can’t look away from that either, and instead lets his gaze slide up to Matthew’s face as he stands.

He knows he should look away because they’re in plain enough sight and is London, which means there’s someone in every corner, but he can’t. This is Matthew and that makes it home, so he reaches up and brushes Matthew’s hand with infinite care, tracing the small scar on the inside of his wrist with the tip of his finger. The clouds are gone, but Matthew’s eyes are still dark and grey, though Ioan’s sure it’s not the light, but the heat.

Matthew leans down and braces his free hand on the back of Ioan’s chair, his breath gusting softly against Ioan’s skin. “Come inside.”

Ioan nods as Matthew pulls away, heading in ahead of him. Finishing his beer, Ioan can’t help but smile. Those last few weeks in London were more than tourist attractions and making fun of the Crown. They were this too, days spent tumbled in bed together or on the davenport watching cricket. They shared ales and shots and food and kisses all with equal hunger, desperate to fit everything in before it was over, just in case over was what it truly was.

He leaves the bottle on the table along with his still smoldering fag, half crushed and leaking smoke and burning orange around the edges, and heads inside, uncertain if Matthew’ll be at the telly or at the bar or at the bed, and realizing that, when all is said and done, it’s Matthew, so nothing else matters at all.  



End file.
